The Return of the Fatty Helper

For a minute, I thought that I had left annoying "fatty helpers" behind in my life. Years ago, there was an old lady who gave out samples at the grocery store. Whenever I would go get a sample, she would tell me that she thought I should audition to be on The Biggest Loser. Apparently, once you got to a certain part in the competition, you were allowed to send for a friend or something, and she thought that it would be great if I sent for her, a woman that I didn't know outside of the hi and bye it took to get my sample. Then who can forget the time I was literally chased down outside of a different grocery store. I was casually walking my cart to the car when I heard speeding footsteps. I turned around to see a woman I didn't know coming at me full force! I literally screamed and tried to make a run for it, but duh, I can't run. This lady was on me like white on rice! She told me that she didn't mean to scare me, but she saw me in the store, and she simply had to know why I didn't get a gastric bypass. "Your insurance may pay for it," she told me. 

Yeah, I foolishly thought I was past this stage in my life, but surprise! Here comes social media, a brand new avenue to harass a bi$$h.  

A friend of a friend that I am sort of friendly with started messaging me a year or two ago. She would forward me posts of big people who were finding success losing weight, amongst other things. She sent me posts, "with love," from a friend of hers who was losing weight using some hula hoop contraption. After a while, she stopped messaging me, but the messages are now back. She sends healthy recipes and tips on things to eat to reduce swelling. 

I guess maturity really is something that just happens that you can't feel while you are living life, because I haven't blocked this lady or said anything snarky. I don't feel like her messages have malicious intent. They are just kind of tone deaf and unasked for. There was a time in my life when I would have told her a thing or two, but I don't feel that is appropriate here. Plus, I am old. It is easier to just see her messages, roll my eyes, and move on. I guess I am just grateful that she is not chasing me down the street with a hula hoop or something, but let's not count that possibility out. 

Not the Gram!

When I was a little girl, I used to literally kick and scream when my grandma would try to press my hair. This was also my reaction when I had to go with my aunty to her Saturday morning aerobics classes. My aunty and grandma saw the obesity train coming and tried to turn it around, but this would involve me squeezing my kiddie, frumpy, round body into a leotard that was two sizes too small. Anyway, I say all this to say that at 41, I find myself kicking and screaming every time I realize that I have yet again put off scheduling my mammogram. My first time was last year. It was okay. But I don't want to get another one right now. I just don't want to! 

And yes, I know that it is essential preventative care. Coffee's good friend just died of breast cancer that spread to her bones. She had to go into hospice care, and her power of attorney didn't waste any time cutting the treatment meds and unplugging stuff. He let me know that she had passed on, and it reminded me that I still have to schedule my mammogram. I was supposed to have gotten it done in the spring. I don't know. I'm very stressed out, and I am not in the mental place to take on any more bad news, should there be any. I don't want to deal with it. 

This AKA who went to college with me died of breast cancer, and her friends throw a fundraiser in her name every year. In the promo pictures they use, she looks so young because she died young. I didn't even know her, and I find those pics to be heartbreaking. I try to quickly scroll past them. She has been an annual reminder that I have to get this stuff done since before I was even old enough to be screened. 

Sigh. Obviously, after taking this time to complain, I have to schedule my mammogram today. I don't want to. I will just get it done like I get everything else I want to get done, done: kicking and screaming. 

Seeking Charles Christmas 4: A Crush No More

I'm sad to report that my secret obvious love for Charles Christmas is no more. The thrill is gone. The fantasy is broken. 

Last night, I was scrolling on social media and came across the profile of a girl we will call Lizzy. It looks like she is a fitness/bikini/foodie influencer. She is petite with an impossibly small waist and a full, perfect booty. She is very pretty and has a lot of hair. Much of her content includes her crossing intersections with a close-up on her jiggling behind, and it looks like Charles Christmas has liked a number of her posts. Talk about getting a needle stuck in your balloon. 

Part of having a good crush is the dream ( or possibly the delusion) that you and the other person could one day be together. That hope was dashed today when I saw his manic liking of a good deal of this girl's posts. She is clearly the type of woman he would be in to. They are both incredibly fit. I could see her loving his crazy gym where people bear crawl across the floor and run with weights on their backs. 

"He may have liked her posts because he knows her," Lisha offered. Possibly. Or, more likely, I simply witnessed a case of like attracting like. As much of a hater as I want to be, it does make more sense that he would be into a woman that meal preps and works out daily. 

With that being said, I must bid ado to Charles Christmas. I'm hurt I'm not his type, but what can anyone do about that? I will continue to watch the videos of him pumping iron though. I don't have to have abs and a good weave to do that. 

Holly Clay and the No Good, Very Bad Day

Long story short, I am losing at life. 

I just started a contract gig and I'm not getting the hang of it while everyone else is being recognized for doing an amazing job. 

I have a toothache that is making my whole jaw warm. 

I had a health emergency and could not reach my doctor. I had to talk to another doctor who, although nice, is not familiar with me or my issues. I'm sure my actual doctor will tell me something completely different when I talk to her in the morning. 

My niece had multiple tantrums that felt like they were taking place on my brain. 

I feel like my whole household is annoyed with me for needing some space today. 

I called one of my favorite people and he didn't answer the phone which made me feel alone, ignored, and stupid. 

At the end of it all, all I could do was lay down and cry. Again. Some more. 

I want to talk to someone but I don't care to spread my misery so I think that I will listen to some Toni Braxton and try to regulate my anxiety. Pray. Nibble on dinner. 

Nights are my favorite but they are also hard. It is when all my life choices come to haunt me. It is also when it becomes even clearer that I will always be by myself and have to tread the merky waters of my life in solitude forever. 

Getting emotional. I think it's time for Toni. 

Fearing Fear Itself

Everyone is disappointed about something in their life, I don't care who you are. I like to believe that even the rich snobs that I went to college with have a disappointment or two. I have the general ones. I wish I were a famous writer by now, and I am sad that I do not own a home. The biggest disappointment is how much my life is controlled by fear at this stage of things. 

I used to watch Oprah with my grandma when I was a kid. And I remember she did an episode with Tina Turner, and I think Patti LaBelle. You know, all of her baddie besties. I think it was her birthday episode. Anyway, they went on and on about how being old was cool because you were so sure of yourself and free. They had no desire to be 20 because being 50 or 60 was where it was at! Worrying and fear were things of the past! I guess everyone has their own experiences, because the experiences they described laughing it up with Ms. Winfrey have not been mine! 

This probably comes as no surprise, but I was a scary, fearful kid. I didn't want to get in trouble. I followed the rules. My mom gave me a long leash as a teen to do pretty much anything because she knew how scared I was of everything. Even as a kid, I was fearful of death. I was scared my grandma was going to die or my mom or even my friends. I was scared of what would happen if I got really bad grades, and then in middle school,  when my grades fell, I was scared I wasn't going to get into college. In my young adult life, the fears just got more intense. Fear of being alone. Fear of losing my apartment. Fear of being a failure. Fear of losing my job! Those of us who suffer severely from the superiority complex that is having faith will say that you can't believe in God and be fearful at the same time. That kids is a lie! I have spent many a night praying while being overwhelmed with fear! I honestly don't know any other way to pray. 

Today, I got my test results from a procedure that I had earlier in the week. I called the doctor to see if someone could go over them with me, and the doctor who answered had a bit of an attitude with me. Or maybe she didn't. Maybe my anxiety is so high that everything anyone says sounds like it has some extra heat on it. No one has called me back, and I am so overwhelmed with fear that literally all I can do to address it is write about it. I have no idea when my Patti LaBelle moment is supposed to happen; when I am supposed to kick off my designer heels and scream on the stage of my life. Knee-deep in yet another hair-raising situation, I have to say, I am fearful that the day will never come. 

God and Control

I had yet another jay-jay peek-a-boo procedure today. I showed up ready with Buddy, my emotional support stuffed sloth, in toe. I was in panic tears about 30 minutes later. You see, when plans change I flip out. I take the changes to be a sign that something bad is about to happen. The floor of my procedure was changed. I was told my doctor wasn't coming when she told me she was. I was freaking out. One more change and I was going to run out of the hospital room screaming. I just sat on the medical bed and cried. 

I will say right now, thank God for nurses. They checked on me even through they were clearly busy. I think it was clear that they had a lose canon on their hands. I was seconds away from flying out of there in my hospital gown with the rump exposed. 

"Something is not right," I said to Nurse Ethiopia, this gorgeous older Ethiopian woman who had the bad luck of being assigned to me. I explained to her my philosophy on unexpected changes. 

"Are you a Christian?" she asked, leaning on that machine that beeps. I told her I was. "Well, God is in control of everything. He changed the floor of your surgery. He change your doctor. He's in control." 

I took a deep breath and looked out the window. I could see all of Downtown Atlanta. Yes, God was in control. So when they couldn't find a vein on me anywhere to set up an IV, I sat back, held Nurse Ethiopia's hand, and sang Erykah Badu as the other lady probed my arm with the world's longest needles. This would have been the third "sign" to send me running. 

In the operating room, they let me listen to Sir Mix-A-Lot as I was being put to sleep. My doctor showed up after all, even after having a long night with other patients. Before I went to sleep, I remember telling her to twerk somethin', and when I woke up, it felt like someone had taken a power drill to my lady parts. 

Yes. God is in control. 

Stages

Long ago, I was invited to Colorado to review a winter resort. A family was staying there that I became friendly with, particularly the mother. She asked me how old I was, and at the time, I was 25. She was in her 50s. She said, "You are in that stage of life where you go on Facebook and see that all your friends are getting married. I am at that stage of life where I go on Facebook and see that everyone's parents are dying."

I have thought about that statement over the years, primarily because these stages seemed so extreme. I figured that there has to be a middle stage, and there is. At 40, I am at that stage of life where messed-up, scary stuff begins to happen to you to show you that you are no longer young, and it's not fun. 

Recently, a college friend of mine was diagnosed with breast cancer. Over the years, breast cancer has been diagnosed younger and younger in women. I had a mentor in her 70s that told me that when she started out as a nurse, it was rare to treat a woman under 60 with breast cancer. Now my friend, whom I remember partying with and watching her cross her sorority, is now posting about her doctor's visits and their mental toll. 

I have friends who are navigating separations and divorces. Friends that are dealing with high-risk pregnancies because they are now considered "geriatric". Friends who have seriously injured themselves doing something basic, like bending over or turning their head. It's also supplement time. Don't be surprised if you go to hang out with your girls and the conversation goes rogue, and you all start talking about what vitamins you are taking for heart health and to strengthen your pelvic floor. 

A woman recently went viral for pretty much having a live panic attack because she just turned 40 and felt like she had done nothing with her life and time is running out. This comes with it to, this feeling of feeling like you have not accomplished enough. Even accomplished folks can feel this way, and it's a very haunting and panicked feeling. You start to get antsy, searching for a way to at least have some small success. It's a lot of pressure. 

Earlier this weekend, I had a Clearly Canadian water. Do you remember those flavored waters from the 90s? They are back, and it was amazingly refreshing. The last time I'd had one of these drinks, I was at the stage in my life where my biggest concern was getting my homework done so that I could watch music videos for the rest of the day. Now, when I hear songs on the radio, I don't know who half of the artists are! 

I can be negative and anxious, so for my own mental health, I am trying to brainwash myself into believing that this is the stage that great, beautiful things are going to happen to everyone I know...just a little later than expected. This stage of life can be scary, but I just know that there is some sunshine coming around that bend, and I put that on my fish oil and glucosamine. 

Mammogram Part 2

The day of my mammogram, I prayed that God decrease my anxiety so I could go, get it done, and not reschedule. I was feeling antsy seeing that I'd had a weird dream that I was afraid could be a foreshadowing. I dreamed that me and my grandma were at the park and I was telling her how I was afraid of my mammogram results. She then reached over, squeezed my left breast, and a thick, red, waxy material came out of it. I woke up, not believing that could be a good sign. 

As the time rolled around to go to my appointment, I felt oddly calm. I credit this to my aunty and nephew coming with me, even though they stayed in the car. The doctor's office was oddly quiet. It was towards the end of the day. I was apprehensive, but my anxiety was at bay. 

Let me just say thank you to the sweet Jamaican woman who performed my mammogram. She was patient and kind to me as my anxiety eventually showed up and took over the show. With my left breast awkwardly compressed in the mammogram machine, I started crying and had the urge to rip my boob out of the machine (which would have been painful and possibly would have left me maimed) and run. 

Once it was over, I was told my results would be available in a week. So I was shocked to get an email the next day saying my results were available online. I immediately rolled over and called my gyno office. 

"I can interpret your results, but moving forward,  we probably aren't the appropriate place to call to get your mammogram results," a doctor who wasn't my doctor said before putting me on hold. Uh, okay. After about 30 seconds she popped back on the line and told me everything was fine and to get a mammogram again in a year. That's when I started crying. 

You want to talk about literal tears of joy?! I was so grateful to God. I truly didn't have the bandwidth to deal with more bad news or another health issue. I'm already overwhelmed trying to lose weight and keep my marbles.

A few moments later,  I dried my eyes and took a deep breath. Another fine crisis avoided to be readdressed next year. 

Youth pt. 2

It feels like me and the women in my life turned 39, the universe was alerted, and she sent us an array of crap. The whole thing has me thinking about the meaning of youth. 

As you know, 39 brought me endometrial polyps I had to have plucked out. That was emotional and incredibly stressful for a woman whose anxiety is already so naturally high that I could shoot to the moon on it. A college friend told me that she has already had her mammogram, something that should be set for next year, because our good friend's wife was diagnosed with breast cancer at 39. 

For some of my other girlfriends, the race to have a baby has never been so real, especially for my uncoupled friends that have to weigh waiting for a man with getting a donor. Today, my 39-year-old doctor friend died in hospice care from a disease she wasn't even old enough to get screened for! 

Is the universe trying to tell me and my soon-to-be middle-aged friends to cherish life and your health because you never know what trick life is going to pull out of its hat? Okay! Message received. Now can you please keep all my girls well and alive?

It doesn't work like that. 

When I was a kid, I'd hear my grandma on the phone giving and receiving updates on sick friends and friends who had passed. The whole thing would go over my head, now it's at my feet. For lack of a better word, it's scary. 

Is this to be life from now on? Scared for my wellbeing and that of those I love? I guess this is yet another disgusting part of adulting. My grandma would tell me to pray. I think I will. 

Hysterectomy/Mysterectomy

I called the doctor's office as soon as I got an alert that my test results came back from my biopsy. I don't even think that they were aware that they had come in yet. I was really high strung, seeing that I am not a medical professional and had just been forwarded a couple of pages of things that might as well have been written in Spanish. The doctor went over my results with me, it was good news, but an eye now has to be kept on my jay-jay. He said later on, if there is still an issue, I may have to get a hysterectomy. Of course, this sent me into a spiral. 

In the past, I have said that I wanted one because I could not deal with the stress of worrying about my lady parts. But when I heard the doctor say that word out of his mouth, I lost it. And unbelievably, I was not worried about my body or possibly having to have another surgery. I was not even worried about my ability to have kids, for I have never wanted to be a mom. What I was worried about (embarrassingly) is if a man would want me with half of my plumbing gone. This would make me an old lady! Would I even still be a girl? Would this make my insides feel like razor blades and bottle caps?

Child, do you know what is even more stressful than worrying about your 'gina? Worrying about a man and what men want and never having one and blah, blah, blah. Along time ago, I figured that I was fat and that finding a man that would really, truly love me may be a long shot. And as much as I would like to be partnered, I thought that I was clear with myself about how my 50/50 chance was more like slim to none. Yet, when he said the 'h' word, everything came bubbling up to the surface and guys, I was so, so sad. I have had a minute to sit with this. Now I am mad. 

I am mad that at almost 40 I have not been able to shake off this "What about men?" mentality. It's like a second skin! Whether I want to admit it or not, my whole life has been a serious of failed attempts to paint the peacock to get a guy's attention which is a real waste! I could have spent that time with loved ones, doing something I really enjoy. Or spent that time getting preventative vaginal exams! The other day, I was talking to a doctor about my health, and all I could think about was this hypothetical, may never arrive man. 

I know. Pathetic. 

Dr. Hottie and the Biopsy

I'm not going to lie: when I was dropped off early at the hospital for my procedure, I stood on the steps and cried. I was scared, overwhelmed, and alone. I knew that I was going to cry, but I didn't think it would be that early. 

"Are you okay?" the security guard asked. I nodded, but he walked over to me anyway. I rolled my eyes. If men aren't ignoring me, they are bothering me when I am trying to have a private moment. I wiped my eyes and followed him inside where a man with a crutch was already waiting. We were the early birds, waiting for 6am to go up to get prepped for our surgeries. I sat there listening to Glorilla, praying that things would go my way. I had never had any type of surgery or anesthesia, and I was mortified of not waking up. My fears were not calmed when I was told I was sent to the wrong area and that I had not paid money I had a receipt for paying. By this time, my mind was all over the place. If one more oopsie was made, I was going to make a run for it! 

By the time I was checked into pre-op, I looked a hot mess! Sadness and worry were graffitied all over my face. I looked tired and upset. Looking in the mirror after giving my urine sample, it dawned on me that I looked the worst that I had ever seen myself! But the party was just beginning. I got changed into the backless gown that no one likes and sat still while a woman rubbed by back and butt down with antiseptic wipes. Then Nurse Heavy Hand rubbed my right arm down so hard with an alcohol cotton ball that she bruised me. How hard do you have to be rubbing me to bruise me with a piece of cotton? She couldn't find my vein. My left arm looked like a pin cushion, only for Nurse Tiny Little to find my vein on the right arm and get me with one prick. Thank. God. 

Once my doctor arrived, I was relieved and ready to rock. She came with the resident I had been seeing during my visits, which made me more comfortable. I almost allowed my shoulders to relax a little before a tall, brown brotha with beautiful eyebrows and lashes showed up at the foot of my bed. He was introduced as Dr. Hottie, another resident that would be helping out with the surgery. 

Oh no, I thought to myself. I looked like SH&T! Of course I did. When I was in high school and had bad asthma attacks where I couldn't breathe, my respiratory therapists always looked like they had hopped out of an Abercrombie ad. I was beyond embarrassed. 

However, the humiliation didn't come until I got into the operating room and needed help getting on the operating table with Dr. Hottie right there. I could have died! My butt cheeks were exposed and ashy. They don't allow you to wear lotion on the day of a surgery! I would have done anything for just a squirt of Nivea. 

Once I was in recovery, I looked over at the nurse's station and he was sitting there, working, looking good. I could tell he was fine, even with his face mask on. He even looked like he smelled good. I could feel myself smiling goofily at him and then it dawned on me: THIS FINE MAN HAS SEEN MY VAGINA! If I weren't completely out of it, I would have screamed!

However, once everything did wear off and I was getting ready to go home, I thanked Dr. Hottie and told him I was sorry if I was acting weird. I just wasn't expecting a man in the surgery. He said it was okay and smiled. I have to tell you, I felt something in that moment. But I cannot be sure if it was a sensual connection or post-surgical vaginal pain. All I know is that next time, if there has to be a next time, I am sneaking a travel container of lotion into pre-op in my bra. 

Skeez Louise pt 2: Chocolate Chuck and the Hypothetical D Pic

You may or may not know this about me, but I LOVE a good mystery; a good who done it and why. I like to swish the puzzle pieces of a situation around and study them until they all fit and make sense. I gobble up mystery novels like kitty nip. For me, there is mystery in everything, even in the lives of people I know. Scrolling through Instagram, the mysteries fly through my timeline and slap me in the face. How can a guy from my old neighborhood drive a Tesla, but need to create a GoFundMe fundraiser to bury his dad? How can a very petite girl I knew from my elementary school after school program be shapeless her whole life yet, after a trip to the Dominican Republic, now have a behind the size of Texas? And how can Chocolate Chuck's wife, Nerdy Nadine vanish? She's been scrubbed from his IG, along with any tangible proof that he ever had kids. Even the picks of his international vacations, that he never went on with Nadine, have been trashed, and replaced with promos for his business. Could Purple Reign have been right? Could their union, which once sprang from the springs of love at Xavier University, have decayed and fallen from the vine? And if it has, what is the most appropriate, sensitive, considerate, respectful way to see what that D do? 

Let's rewind back to about 2006, back when my sweet, fun, yet loopy and dopey friend Ditzy Diane had engaged in some XXX activities with Chuck. I mean she went on and on about it. Titanic didn't get as many rave reviews as she gave that D! She was literally clapping her hands and laughing as she told me about it. If her goal was to make me jealous, she had achieved it. I remember looking over my shoulder at Chuck and Nadine on the other side of the cafeteria. I thought to myself that if I ever got skinny and pretty (because I am NOT Chuck's type) and if he wasn't with a woman who could crack my neck with her bare hands, I would shoot my shot. And I wouldn't need to go all-the-way like Ditzy Diane. A little peek would do it for me. Okay, so I am in no way skinny, but my spirit is telling me that this may be the best time. He obviously is in some type of a midlife transition, and I am suffering from medical related dehydration.

"Oh yeah, you can get a pic, no problem," Risky Business assured me. I tell you, it is truly dangerous to have a friend that will support you completely, even when you are being crazy. "And it won't be as hard as you think it is." But you see, Risky thinks that we should wait until homecoming when folks are feeling frisky and walk away with a bunch of D picks, not just the one. I'm good with just the one though. 

If I am being honest, it wasn't just Diana's review that has me curious. I slipped up and saw him shirtless on another friend's InstaLive which is what I think really kicked things in gear a couple of years ago. And now that I have been OnlyFans tricked and am scared of my test results, this desire to see D has taken over me! It's embarrassing and ridiculous...but nice work if I can get it. 

My anxiety can sometimes cause me to act impulsively and stupidly, so I am going to sit on this deep, jaw-flexing desire until I know what move to make. Plus, can't be all hoochy like in this. Where would the mystery be in that?

Scared Stiff

So, what we know for sure is that God doesn't put us through anything we can't handle. I then deduce from this that there is a reason for everything we endure. I am choosing to believe that God is going to petrify me so thoroughly with life stuff that at some point I won't be able to be scared ever again. That day, however, was not the other day.

Sitting in the doctor's office waiting room, I am scared. Very scared. I'm so scared that I was not even having my usual pity party I'm-so-alone-in-this thoughts. I'm was just sitting here calmly, scared.

Waiting to be called for my appointment, I thought about a big museum, the types they show in movies. I envisioned children on a field trip being led through a dinosaur exhibit until they make it to me. I am frozen, immortalized in a maxi dress and ballet flats, sitting against a piece of wall from my room. 

"This is Holly Clay from 2024. As you can see, she has been fully preserved. The pressures of going through life a lone and panicked literally left her scared stiff. Her family donated her body to science as a warning to future generations about going into middle age un-partnered."

The kids and their teachers would take pictures before moving on to a display called "Obsolete", where they would get to play in a pool of old phone books. 

At some point once I got home after my visit, I found myself hysterical. What else is new? I called my doctor, some friends, my mentor. Just when I thought I couldn't feel more alone, another situation proves me wrong. I didn't feel like I had anyone in the world. After three hours of tears, I finally went to sleep. My headache was splitting. I can't say I'm trying to be strong because I don't think I have any strength left. I'm totally pooped. As my medical team told me, I need to pray. More shit storms are on the way; this is the dinosaur in the room. 

Risky Business (A Story About Coping)

The other night, I called one of my good girlfriends from college to see how she was doing. She has been having some problems trying to figure out the next move in her career. Actually, that sentence is an understatement. It has been a nightmare and through it all, she has been trying to balance looking for a gig with relaxing and having a social life. Again, this has not been easy, especially when you weigh how she has gone from being completely independent to having to live with her elderly parents. Like I said, a nightmare. So, when I called her, in an attempt to keep it light, I asked her about her dating life and that is when she gave me the scoop. Apparently, she has been meeting up with guys on Tinder, men that she does not know, to give them blow jobs. 

And just when you think you have heard it all. Admittedly, my eyes crossed when she told me this. But she was clear about not wanting to be judged and I didn't want to judge her...but I did have some questions; the primary question being WHY? Unbeknownst to me, she enjoys giving oral sex without anything in return. Although it can be work, she likes it. According to her, it also saves her some time. Once being introduced to a man's penis in this fashion, she can cut through a lot of the formalities and decide then and there if she wants to continue seeing the guy or moving towards having sex with them. If, through the oral encounter, she finds that they have a small penis or a penis that cannot maintain an erection, she puts them in the return to sender box and keeps moving. 

I sat silently on my end of the line as she used phrases like, "to completion" and "power dynamic". She also made it clear that she didn't want anything sexual in return from these guys not just because the pleasure of giving was enough, but also because she didn't feel like getting waxed. But she told me not to worry. Since her sexual activity has increased, she is getting STI tested every three months. To me, this somehow sounded both responsible and irresponsible. What if you catch something in the meantime in between time?

"I don't know," I said, taking a deep breath. "This sounds like risky business."

"Oh yeah, this is definitely high-risk behavior which is why I am getting tested more."

Emmm. Okay?

After hanging up with her, I thought about the things that we do, although at times irresponsible, to cope. Out of the heartache of having to refocus her career, my dear friend is tossing out BJs to losers. I eat fried foods and sugar. Many of my homegirls engage in retail therapy, and going to homecoming has shown me how many of my peers are heavy drinkers and smokers. By this time, we should all know that life is hard and can out-and-out suck! The goal is to try to get through without losing your mind or forming an addiction. But I know my friend will make it on to the other side of this, especially since she is optimistic about the 20-something co-ed that she is getting to know. A story for another time. 

Homecoming Post 9: Cry Me a Gyna- The Girl and the Gyno pt. 3

I was really cranky after the event on the yard on Friday. I was hungry, tired, and just wanted to sit down somewhere. Yet this task was proving to be impossible because three of my requested ride share rides had either left me or dropped the ride. They all claimed that they could not find the University Center. On top of this, my sad excuse for a smart phone kept dying. My anxiety was high and I wanted to scream. Just as I opened my mouth to let out an earth-shaking holler, Happy Face and her friend were about to walk right past me. 

"Hey!" I said excitedly to Happy Face. "You are a gynecologist, right?"

"Yes," she answered, sweetly. It was then that I let out a diarrhetic spew of the nightmare that has been trying to find a good gyno in Atlanta. I especially filled her in on this last experience where the doctor threw out the words endometrial cancer without so much as a PAP or blood draw. I told her how she wanted to put me under anesthesia and give me an IUD. 

After going on and on and on with a dead phone in my hand and no way back home, I took a breath and said, "I just did not feel heard."

She rubbed my back and said, "I'm sorry. I can see you."

I was so appreciative I could have thrown myself around her ankles. If I could have taken my gyna and put it in a bag for her to take back to her hotel room to investigate I would have. Running into her was great, especially since I asked my primary care for a referral a month ago and still have not heard back. 

This is also a huge deal because I have spent my adult life trying to dodge Xavier doctors and pharmacists. I know about HIPPA and all of that, but I just imagine that they all do a Zoom call weekly and talk about all the gross medical issues their Xavierite patients have. And it's not just me. I knew someone that went to the drug store to get a morning after pill, saw the pharmacist was from Xavier and ran out of the store. That would have been my response.

But I won't be running from Happy Face. Fingers crossed that my visit, like the others I have had, won't be a complete disaster. 

Taking A Knee

By the grace of God, I have been an overweight person that never had issues with their knees...until recently. 

At the beginning of the year, I decided to become more active. I lounge around my house like a cat and move as little as possible. So, coupled with my meal prepping (which has been awful), I decided to try to be more mobile. BIG MISTAKE! Not long after this decision, my right knee started to act up. I feel like I'm having a flashback! During the pandemic, this Delta I went to college with who was way skinnier and healthier than me up and died out of nowhere. This scared me to the point that I vowed to do more water aerobics. After my first day back in the pool, I woke up the next day feeling like my right leg was about to pop off. I had pulled my hip flexor, and for months, I was hobbling around the house in tears. Since I am uninsured, I just tried to nurse myself back to health with a delicate mixture of Bio Freeze, Tigar Balm, a hot water bottle, and Ibuprofen. It was the worse time of my life. I am now seeing a pattern: exercise = injury. But I have to get moving, so I have just been dancing on my stomach while listening to bounce music with my FitBit on. Just so you know, twerking on your stomach to "Shake It Like A Dog" by Kane and Abel on repeat will burn you a good 500+ calories easy. 

Anywho, I do not do well with pain or discomfort. I have been sleeping extra still as to not upset my knee, which has been both painful and uncomfortable. 

Thinking back on how this all started, I have to blame my clumsy nephew. He came in my room to get something and fell on my already tweaking knee with the full force of his 50+ pounds. I screamed and he ran out of the room. Now, here we are. 

Luckily, I can still get up and move, but I do so slowly, scared to upset my knee, which is now running the show. I creep around my own knee like it's a sleeping baby. It really is tiresome and annoying. But at times like this I have been told it is best to count your blessings, which I'm scared to do. I don't want to injure a finger. 

Worth The Weight

When I was but a young fatty in middle and high school, music videos on BET and MTV were everything to me. This was back when the show Rap City stayed on for like five hours, and when Carson Daly was the man. Like many of the horny young boys I went to school with, my favorite part of the music videos was the women. If only I could be as sexy as the women in the DMX feat. Sisqo video for "What You Really Want"; if only I looked like the three Kims, Latoya and Tina. I can't think about how much time I wasted fantasizing about getting so small that I could show up at school in a jean FUBU short set. This I think about as I choke down the yogurt and tuna in my meal-prepped breakfast and lunch. 

I love you so I can't lie to you: meal-prepping has sucked butt cheeks. By my third week of doing it, I had stopped eating breakfast and lunch altogether. That's right, I got to a point where I would rather starve than eat the carrots and salad that I had prepared for myself. Eating these joyless meals was actually making me emotional and depressed. I mean, how many blueberries can one person eat?!

Last Saturday when I went to volunteer, I overhead the 20-something volunteers talking about what they were doing to manage their weight. And I say manage because if either one of these three girls lost so much as a pound, they would die. I interrupted the conversation when I heard one of them talking about putting some type of thick weightloss powder into their water. I just had to know how they are able to stay so small. They talked about not eating until they were full, not snacking, drinking meal replacements, exercise, all of which sound horrible to me. They talked about being hungry but deciding to eat what was best while still trying not to allow dieting to ruin their lives. 

Looking at these three beautiful young women, I realized that they had to be keeping something from me. How could they be content drinking Slim Fast shakes while everyone else had pancakes? Later in the week, it came to me: the one thing that keeps them small, more than the fad diets and cleanses, is the fear of getting fat! But I am already fat, so where does that leave me? I guess the fear of dying would be a motivator if I didn't already feel dead eating this nasty food. 

Somewhere along the line, they also got comfortable with being hungry and even not eating for long periods of time. This is something that happens young, for I remember watching those Lifetime movies about White girls with eating disorders and vowing to starve. I was typically binge-eating cookies before the next movie came on. 

I think I would be okay with dieting if anyone had been honest with me about how sad it would make me. Since I can't swallow my emotions with food, all I do is sit around and mope, thinking about hurtful things that have happened to me that Cheetos helped me to forget. So, I'm laying here feeling everything, wishing I had a piece of cake. IT'S A PARTY! 

Unlike the other diets I have tried, I am going to try to stick with this one. My doctor says that my goal should be losing enough weight to lower my blood pressure and cholesterol. My goals is to lose enough weight to bone whatever single/divorced African Alpha is available at my college homecoming. Whichever comes first I guess. 

Full disclosure: I had a piece of fried chicken for breakfast this morning because I didn't do my prepping yesterday. Rookie mistake. I'm really trying guys. 

Holls and The Locked Box

The other night I woke up from a night of mixed, weird dreams, sat up straight and asked out loud, "What if my box is locked?!" I mean can that happen? I'm not sure, but what if it can and it has happened to me? What if my vag is as depressed as I am and has just shut down? Given up? This is on my mind, of course, because of the tragedy that was my last gyno visit. 

What a mess. 

If you read my blog even remotely regularly you know what a nightmare my paps are, and this last one was every bit the disaster that I thought it was going to be. I told myself a whole bunch of fluffy, positive stuff like the hippy Yoga ladies do on Youtube for a good outcome but sadly, that didn't help. I won't bore you with the ghastly details. Let's just say that me and my gyno were both visibly shaken by the horror of it all. It was so bad that the exam didn't even happen. Afterward, I sat on the examining table crying as a really compassionate nurse rubbed my back. Once I composed myself and left, I vowed never to try to get an exam again.

"You can't do that!" Bells yelled into the phone. "Papsmears are preventative care!"

Sigh. Bells is all about her preventative care. In undergrad, it was as simple as eating Special K bars for breakfast instead of my traditional stack of pancakes. Now she gets every recommended age and gender appropriate test/screening there is. The woman is going to live to be 206! 

"It hurt!" I yelled, and boy, did it. One crank of that tongy thing in my junk took my breath away. 

"Well it's uncomfortable for sure," she agreed. "But you have to get them done."

I called Savannah in a panic about the whole thing and she met my anxiety with her usual cool, Cali-carefree demenor. 

"Savannah, I am the only woman I have ever heard of that needed emotional support from a nurse after a routine pap!" I cried into the phone. 

"Oh, that's just because you are a little sensitive," she said. 

SENSITIVE?!

"You need to get some toys," Mama Savannah, Savannah's mom, echoed from the passagenger seat. I was on speaker phone. "Or some D."

D?! Everyone is a comedian. 

And then the other night it all came to me after my weird dreams. My vag has locked up, taking with it any hope (all be it small) that I had of ever having a relationship or a normal, grown-up lady life. And I can't say that I am mad at her. I think I would shut down too if I was as un-social as she is. It's time to just stop caring and embrace the hand-me-down thrifted turtle necks and easy-fit gender neutral blue jeans. It's a wrap! 

"Shut up, your junk didn't lock up," one of my medical buddies said in a very annoyed tone. "That's like me saying that my ear has closed up or my eye or something."

Is it? It doesn't sound the same. 

I can't lie, this whole situation makes me a little sad. Oh the whoas of being the only woman alive with a passive peach. 

Gyno-oh-no

I have to go to the gynecologist next week for my annual exam. 

Maybe this would not be such a huge ordeal if I wasn't still traumatized from my last visit. WHAT A DISASTER! There were a lot of tears, a lot of anxiety, and a lot of stress. I don't even get why I even have to go. I don't get any action. The chances of my actually utilizing my box are about as slim as an anorexic White girl!  Not to mention that I almost killed myself trying to get on the examination table last time. It was so high! I had to run and jump to get on it and the damn thing almost flipped over on me! Can you imagine a more unfortunate way to die than getting smushed under an exam table while preparing for a routine pap?! I'd rather my family tell my friends that I was shot in a whore house raid. 

On top of the horror of it all, I am currently beefing with my gyno. A few weeks ago, I thought that I might be getting a yeast infection (TMI), and if you read my blog, you recall how mortifying my last one was. It was my first one ever, and I was hysterical! I know what you are thinking: you were 36, how is that possible? I had the same question. Since I had never had one, I thought somehow that I was immune to them. Spoiler alert: I'M NOT! Anywho, I mentally could not handle the melodrama of last year, so I called and asked the nurse at the gyno office to ask the doc to write me a prescription for a common yeast infection medication. Long story short, he said no. HE SAID NO! He said he wanted me to come in, even though I had just been in for blood work this summer and already had an upcoming appointment on the books. Then the nurse tells me that I can either come in or go to urgent care. URGENT CARE? Why would I do that if I have a f&*king gynecologist?! What am I, a commoner? The reason why I got a gynecologist with an address and a mailbox and a degree was so that I would not have to sit in a crowded urgent care room, silently praying over my crotch while being sneezed on by the COVID positive. Being told no by a man in this situation outraged me so much that I can't even explain it. 

When I think about arriving for my visit, I imagine being dragged into the office and across the carpet by a giant as I scream and claw at the floor. Winter is already an emotional landmine for me, I honestly can't take any more drama. We have come so far in science as a country, how is there no at-home pap test women can perform on themselves in the privacy of their homes? I could easily do mine as I caught up on reruns on Hulu. Ah, to wish on a star. 

I will keep yall posted on what will inevitably be another fine nightmare. Yay. 

My Red Hot Diflucan Summer

Do you remember that tiny pocket of time before the Delta strain of COVID chased us back in the house where we were actually enjoying a Hot Vax Summer? I use the word "we" as I refer to the culture. I wasn't participating in any of those brunches or birthday parties highlighted on social media. I was at home whimpering over my throbbing, itchy vagina. 

Many of my friends don't understand how I made it to nearly middle age without ever having a yeast infection and neither do I. I mean, when I was 18 I was wearing thongs to class in 700 degree New Orleans heat and was somehow spared. However, my good luck was no match for being put on an antibiotic for a toothache I was having. 

I'm surprised you didn't hear about it before now. I called any friend that would listen, complaining and whining. 

"Stop drinking cranberry juice!" Jamaica screamed into the phone. "That is for a UTI! Drink more water! The sugar is feeding the yeast!" This she tells me as I literally had a straw in a family-sized jug of Ocean Spray! 

"I know that you took a Diflucan Holly, but you can also use a vaginal anti-fungal," my mentor assured me. "Nothing will happen." I didn't believe her. I was fearful that I could die from some sort of vaginal overdose. In my defense, I was being irrational. It was hard to sleep, seeing that my gyn had a thick, heavy, heartbeat that rung in my ears whenever I closed my eyes. 

To add annoyance to injury, I sent my aunt to CVS to get me Monistat 1, a one-and-done treatment, and she came back with Monistat 7, a seven-day treatment! The treatment comes with these plastic pipe-like things. Who wants to be plastic-pipin' it for 7 days? Not I said the cat! 

"Oh shut up pampered pussy and use the damn cream!" Winfrey hollered at me, irritated by my sobbing into the phone. Tortilla was my only friend that showed me any compassion. She didn't make fun of my irrational fear of anti-itch cream. She's very patient with my phobias. 

The fact that women get these, some even chronically, should be front-page news! But just in case you haven't gotten one, let me leave you with some adjectives: itchy, throbbing, swollen. It's way worse than those treatment commercials lead you to believe. They will have you thinking that a yeast infection is just mildly uncomfortable. NOT! It's hellacious! 

Luckily, I lived through it to tell you about it, but it was touch and go for a minute there. Just know you have a sister in me when you inevitably end up yeasty, your cookie smelling like a medicated piece of toast. Aw, to be a woman.